


After Midnight

by Chrononautical



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fireworks, First Kiss, M/M, New Year's Eve, Paris (City), Present Tense, Romantic Fluff, Temptation, everything always is with these two, fire and water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 20:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Walking along the Seine on New Year's, Crowley and Aziraphale share a one-time-only kiss.





	After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Feel like listening to a dreamy reading of this story? [A podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21830128) by carboncopies is available right here on AO3!

After the apocalypse doesn’t happen, every new day on the calendar feels like a gift. Not only is Aziraphale allowed meals that would never have been eaten, books that would never have been written, and concerts that never would have been performed, but he gets to see Crowley whenever he likes. Being out in the open without fear of consequences is a liberation. They are freed of the heavenly and hellish shackles which once held them separate. Their friendship is more than a gift: it is a hard won prize. 

Celebrating the turn of the year feels necessary, and the best place to do that is across the channel. Crowley agrees: New Year’s Eve is unquestionably Paris. Both angel and demon have a soft spot for the City of Light, and fireworks over the Eiffel Tower might just come close to expressing some part of the jubilation Aziraphale feels in each new dawn. Besides, one must consider available restaurants when traveling. They share a lovely little seven course dinner at one of Aziraphale’s particular favorites before joining the throng beneath the tower for the show. 

When the year turns, the pyrotechnics explode. 

The first time Aziraphale ever saw fireworks was in China over the palace of an emperor. Leaves on the trees were fading brown and falling, but in the sky new stars burst in brilliant red and green explosions. He remembers thinking Crowley would like them.1 Centuries later, Crowley and Aziraphale stood side by side in London to watch showers of golden sparks leap from boats along the Thames. That night was as brilliant as the day. They shared candied chestnuts from a paper cone, so warm and sticky that their fingers brushed together at least three times. It was a very good night, indeed, but this is a better one.

All around the Eiffel Tower, humans cheer, kiss, sing, and embrace. Crowley and Aziraphale share a small smile. Nothing more is needed. Night is anything but dark in modern cities, all the lights and mobile telephones blazing to mark a year that almost never came. Hope for all the years to come fills the square, the city, Aziraphale’s very soul. Angels are made for love, which swells through the world like a tidal wave, washing over everything. 

Later, walking along the Seine, Crowley curses a tourist throwing a bottle into the river. Instead of splashing into the water to litter the beautiful scenery with the detritus of humanity, the bottle sparks against the railing and bounces back to strike him in the face. He looks so ridiculous, sputtering and swearing, that Crowley actually chuckles. His warm laugh teasing at the lower register of Aziraphale’s hearing beneath the thrum of the crowds. Overwhelmed, the last bastion of self restraint crumbles in Aziraphale’s heart like a levee drifting downstream with the floodwater.

“Would you indulge me in something very silly, my dear?” 

Crowley’s smile is such a lazy thing, fond and full of amusement. “It’s New Year’s. There’s got to be a pâtisserie open this time of night somewhere. Be practically _illegal_ not to have one about,” he says.2

“Oh, it’s much sillier than that.” Aziraphale’s voice is just as fond as Crowley’s smile. He hopes the demon can hear it. “There is something I should like to try. Just once, I promise. It won’t take long, and I hope it won’t be too dreadfully unpleasant or dull for you. I don’t mean to put you out.” 

Crowley shrugs. “What do you have in mind?” 

In answer, Aziraphale closes the space between them and presses his lips to Crowley’s. Had he been flooded and overwhelmed before? That was nothing compared to the ocean of warmth into which he now sinks. Shutting his eyes is necessary against the new burst of fireworks, so much brighter than anything humans might devise. They sparkle along his skin everywhere he touches Crowley, and tease him with their promise. His mouth falls open, just a little. It isn’t a plea, not really. Crowley is already being more than kind. Then, in a shockingly generous gesture, a hand touches Aziraphale’s cheek. His mouth opens a little more against the soft line of Crowley’s. Miraculously, the demon responds, sliding their tongues together in a sweet, gentle tangle. The fire recedes too soon. A century enveloped by it wouldn’t be long enough. 

When Aziraphale blinks his eyes open, Crowley is already turned away. Between his sunglasses and the fact that he’s facing the water, the demon’s expression is impossible to read. Aziraphale gives him a minute to say something. After it passes, he babbles. 

“Thank you, my dear. I was so carried away with the spirit of the moment. And I thought, well, there’s no harm in it. No need to worry about anyone seeing. Silly, really, that we’ve never done it before, in fact. Not that I think we should do it again! Obviously not. Just once. One time. That was the agreement. Just a foolish little idea. All done now, and we’ll say no more about it.” 

Crowley’s hunching shoulders grow more pronounced with each and every word. “Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” 

In the past, this would be a performative display, part of the dance an angel and demon must do to keep their respective sides from knowing of their friendship. With the new arrangement, Aziraphale’s new side, _their side_ , such plausible deniability is no longer necessary. Which means that Crowley is genuinely upset.

“I am sorry, dearest. I had no idea it would be so much trouble. Can’t we just forget about it? I promise—”

“I didn’t promise,” Crowley hisses. “I never agreed. I wasn’t ready. You didn’t tell me what I was agreeing to.” 

Since this is clearly true, Aziraphale has no defense. “My apologies,” he says simply. “I had no idea a kiss would be so distressing to you.” 

Crowley freezes. His shoulders drop. The aggressive sneer falls from his face. For a beat, he has no expression at all. He is perfectly still while all the drunken revelers flow around them on the river walk. Then, he smiles. Laughs. As charming and engaging as that laugh is, it does not fool Aziraphale for a second. 

“Distressing! Come on, angel. You’re always so dramatic.” 

“Crowley, you were clearly very upset just now, and that is my fault entirely.”

“Upset?” The demon makes one of his flippant, serpentine gestures, like he’s tossing the very idea away. “Like you said, what’s one kiss between friends? Perfectly normal, one time thing. Nothing to get hot and bothered over.”

Aziraphale should accept this. He should join in Crowley’s laughter, make a joke about some of the more difficult trials their friendship has faced, and see if he can find someone selling cocoa along the river-walk. What he says is, “Crowley.” 

“Well,” Crowley admits, dragging the word out for several seconds and far too many syllables, “A demon has a reputation to think of.” 

“I thought we weren’t worried about our reputations any longer. We don’t have to put on a show for our respective sides anymore. We don’t—why would you care what a bunch of demons think?”

“Demons?” Crowley laughs again. “I don’t! I don’t give a fig what any humans think either, angel. You know that. There’s only one person in Paris whose opinion matters to me.”

“Then—”

Shrugging, Crowley puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking away. Aziraphale hurries to match his stride, but he doesn’t need to hurry too much. Crowley always waits for him. 

“I’m a better kisser than that,” Crowley grumbles, kicking a discarded paper noisemaker off the walk. He looks like a child. He looks like someone who knows perfectly well that talking about what a good kisser he is will convince precisely no one.

Although it makes Aziraphale’s body blush in a manner entirely beyond the angel’s control, he says, “I’ve no complaints, my dear. It was a lovely kiss, really.” 

The look Crowley gives Aziraphale is full of such patent disbelief that the angel colors further. He’s willing to admit that the demon’s experience in such matters likely dwarfs his own by an almost infinite degree. 

“Lovely,” Crowley says flatly. Then, after another minute of walking, “Look, you caught me by surprise, angel. I can do better.” He stops on a bridge overlooking the water. The golden light of the street lamp above drives all the shadows from his face. “How about it? Fair’s fair.” 

Aziraphale lost the thread of the conversation at some point and has no idea what Crowley means. “How about what?” 

“You’re right, of course. One kiss doesn’t mean anything. Not over the course of a friendship like ours. It’s a blip. An anomaly. Nothing to worry about. How about if we each get one? One for you for—whatever that was, and one for me to prove I’m not incompetent.” 

Aziraphale wants to say that Crowley’s technique was extremely competent. Far more than competent, in fact. An angel really should tell the truth, and whatever got Crowley so worked up is clearly all in the demon’s unique imagination. It was an excellent kiss. By far the best kiss of any angel’s life. However, Aziraphale has never been good at self denial. Crowley wants to kiss him a second time. He’s not an idiot. He accepts. 

“That sounds very fair.” 

Crowley takes off his sunglasses. Despite being sober, in the open air, and surrounded by humans, Crowley takes off his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s heart starts malfunctioning, beating in staccato. He wonders vaguely if Crowley has done something to time because every moment seems suddenly well defined and as languid as the flowing river below. The difference in height between their two corporeal bodies isn’t much, but it feels pronounced when Crowley steps in close. The distance between their two bodies can be measured in inches, but it feels like acres.3 Crowley’s eyes are soft. His smile is fond. The hand that cups Aziraphale’s cheek is warm. The thumb that graces Aziraphale’s bottom lip is gentle. 

Finally, Crowley leans in and presses their lips together in a sweet, chaste gesture. Time stretches and bends—eternity passes—but only in Aziraphale’s mind because his physical heart beats exactly three times. Just thrice. When Crowley pulls away, he makes a pained, reluctant sound, catching Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his own in a brief, hungry contrast to the almost angelic restraint of the kiss. He doesn’t go far, remains barely inches away. 

With eyes squeezed tightly shut and a hand still pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek, Crowley is a picture of torment. He offered Aziraphale chastity and control. He wanted Aziraphale to have a perfect, friendly kiss instead of the kiss a demon gives on instinct. This was the kiss Crowley believes an angel would desire. Clearly, this rigid discipline is meant as a gift, but Aziraphale doesn’t want it. He wants the prize. He wants Crowley. 

Pulling the demon to him, Aziraphale is rewarded instantly. Their mouths open in perfect tandem and all of the passion Crowley was so clearly bridling is unleashed. Bodies press together in an eager embrace and heat pulses between them like a kindling star. When it ends, Crowley doesn’t fade backward. This time, when Aziraphale’s eyes open, they meet the soft gold of Crowley’s own in the lamplight. The hand—which had gone on to twist in Aziraphale’s hair—returns to his cheek, stroking along his chin in a sweet farewell as their bodies part. 

“That’s twice you’ve kissed me, angel,” Crowley says. 

“Um—” Aziraphale tastes the ‘m’ in his own hesitation. It still tastes very much like Crowley’s tongue, which is more than a little distracting. “Well, yes. That was the point?”

“One freebie each.” Crowley’s smile has more than a hint of a snake about the corners. “The second kiss was me, but the third was all you. You kissed me twice.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinks, willing his brain to catch up to the conversation and stop replaying the bit where Crowley licked the roof of his mouth. “Well, I’m terribly—”

“I don’t mind.” Cutting off Aziraphale’s apology is as easy for Crowley as snapping the sunglasses out of his pocket and putting them back on his face. “Just means you can’t call it a one time thing.” 

It isn’t one.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Crowley was not there, then. In those days, they might go centuries without bumping into one another. When the demon saw fireworks in China about a decade later, he was mesmerized for the entire display. He wondered afterwards if Aziraphale would tolerate them on special occasions, despite the noise and the smell. ^
> 
> 2\. Aziraphale has never admitted any responsibility for the perfectly sensible law prohibiting French bakers from all taking holiday at the same time. Unfortunately, Crowley doesn’t need the Seine to admit to running to know that it’s wet. ^
> 
> 3\. It aches. ^


End file.
